Whatever It Means
by Semby
Summary: Willow and Xander's relationship has changed a lot over the years... future fic


Title: "Whatever It Means"  
Disclaimer: So not mine.  
Pairing: Willow/Xander  
Setting: Undefined future. (Probably quite a few years after "Chosen".)  
Summary: Their relationship isn't what it used to be (you always hurt the one you love).  
Thanks to: fickledame for the beta!

They're both trying to figure out if they're closer or farther apart than they've ever been. They share a bed most nights. They love each other – they've always loved each other. They're sitting in the same room together, but they're on opposite sides and they're not talking. They're sitting in the same room together and neither one wants to leave, but shit, this is hurting.

"Why won't you marry me?" Xander finally says, and his voice cracks. It's not a topic that has even been mentioned today, but has been brought up over and over throughout the past year.

Willow shakes her head. "You're asking too much. Just stop."

The silence falls over them again, for longer this time, and they don't care to define it as awkward or comfortable. It just is. It wasn't like this before, but this is so much of what they are now. It happens, when that line is crossed. That line that used to be the barrier between hugging and fucking between friends. When "I love you" is said in that other way, with the thought that it'll be just as easy, and then it isn't.

"Is it because of her? That woman? Are you–"

Xander stops himself. He feels like he's always the one pushing, trying to make them talk out this stuff, trying to make them become more – more honest, more loving, more likely to last, just – more. But he struggles on the follow through. He doesn't know how to pursue these things.

"Do you want it to be her?" Willow asks. She tries to sneer but she doesn't have the energy, or the heart. "Do you still like the idea of me with other women? Do you want me to bring her home, and–"

"Goddamn it, Wills, don't be like this. Don't try to hurt me for the fun of it. This isn't us."

She sighs, gives in, goes for honesty. "It's not her. She's sweet, and she's beautiful, and we've flirted, but she's not… It's not her. It couldn't ever be. You can trust me, you know that, right?"

He nods, reassured, but there's still this space between them. "Is it Tara? Are you still holding on? Is Tara still in this room with us?"

"Is Anya?" she fires back. She notices a pair of his shoes left carelessly on the ground in front of her, and she's tempted to throw one across the room, maybe break something in the process. If she thought he'd react, she probably would.

He pauses, really thinks about it, and then whispers, "I've put her behind me."

"Well, I haven't. But that doesn't mean…" She stops and tries to figure out what it does or doesn't mean. "I want to be here. I do."

He exhales, relieved, and nods. "I do, too."

They both want to hug, but don't.

xxxxx

She has told him that she prefers for him to not wear his eye-patch while they're both at home. Sometimes she likes to just sit with him and stare deep into his eyes, trying to remember what they looked like when they were both the same, trying to determine which she thinks is more beautiful now – the one that looks back, or the one that makes him more vulnerable.

It disconcerts him when she does this. It makes him feel like she's seeing so much more of him than he's willing to show, and so much more than he can see of her. He looks back at her and knows he's only getting half the effect she gets.

One day she arrives home to find him wearing the eye-patch. He acknowledges her presence, but doesn't remove it. She walks into the bedroom to change without a word.

He feels stronger, when he can have some semblance of control over the little things.

xxxxx

One day he's out walking in the middle of the afternoon, and he runs into a guy who's kind of familiar.

It doesn't take long to establish that they went to high school together, but the other man doesn't clarify his name, and Xander doesn't care to ask. He was a grade ahead of the Scoobies and got out of Sunnydale right after his graduation – never looked back. One of the smart ones, Xander figures.

After a minute or two of semi-awkward small talk, the question comes: "Hey, you used to hang out with that brainy redhead all the time, right? You still friends with her?"

"No," he answers. "Not really, no."

xxxxx

They still have good nights, sometimes. This has been one of them.

They've had a good night, and now they're stumbling into the bedroom. They fall to the bed, movements awkward when they're pressed so close together. They don't mind or notice so much because they're so focused on ripping each others' clothes off. Their lips have been pressed together since they left the restaurant and they've yet to find the need to come up for air. Their bodies are sweating, their fingers are clawing, and the reward is coming soon.

Finally they're free of all barriers and their bodies rush to connect. Before long, Xander's grunting and Willow's crying, "I love – _fuck_ – I love – !" but it's all over much sooner than expected. They pull apart, sticky, tired and frustrated.

Xander tries to fill the silence. "I–"

"It's okay," she interrupts, and then rolls over, leaving him staring at her back.

He keeps looking for a long time afterwards. He's tempted to trace patterns on her skin with his fingers, but settles for tracing with his sight. Once he's sure she's asleep, he takes himself in hand and stares at the ceiling instead.

xxxxx

They've been laughing and talking, like the old days, but now it's just stopped and there's only silence. They walk quietly and sometimes she takes his hand and lets it go after a little while and sometimes he wants to take hers as well but stops himself.

She's developed some personal space and intimacy issues over the years, and he never knows when touching is okay.

He wants to figure things out, he wants to ask her, "Is it okay if I hold your hand? Am I allowed to touch you?" but then there's a vampire and he forgets about talking.

She makes something like a protective field around them while he searches for anything that will work as a stake, but he can't look beyond their bubble and the vampire's banging on it, banging on it, breaking it down.

The rest happens quickly. Willow's been out of practice lately, and she quickly loses her hold on the barrier. The vampire dives towards them, just as Xander finds an old wooden chair that someone put out with the trash. He smashes it against the pavement until it breaks into something that could work as a stake, and shoves it through the vampire's back as he leans over Willow who's been knocked to the floor.

She's covered in the dust, but she laughs, and he hesitates a moment and then laughs too.

It's been a long time since they did that.

He helps her up and she wraps her arms around his waist, giddy, as they continue their walk home.

They both start to think about Buffy, thousands of miles away, still doing this every night, and they know they're going to call her when they get in.

Sometimes they forget that the shit they deal with everyday isn't such a big deal.

xxxxx

It's not the best time to bring it up. It's really not, but she does anyway. They're just sitting, eating mac and cheese, and watching a movie in Spanish without subtitles, because they can't find the remote and haven't felt much like talking anyway.

She watches him scoop another huge forkful into his mouth and says, "I can't have children."

She enjoys watching the reaction on his face, the surprise and touch of sorrow, and knowing that he has to wait until he swallows before he can react vocally. He eventually does so. "What? When did you find this out? Did you go to a doctor without me?"

"I don't really want to get into it," she replies quietly. "I just thought you should know."

He shakes his head. "But you know, there are ways around this. We can go to fertility clinics, we can figure out if there's a way to fix it. And we can always adopt."

"No, Xander. You don't get it. I _can't _have children. Not at all." She's frustrated, and she's wearing her resolve face. He knows not to argue.

The next day, he enters the bathroom to see her taking her birth control pill as she's always done. She looks up and holds his gaze as she swallows and washes it down with a glass of water. Her face doesn't show any shame.

xxxxx

They haven't spoken in three days. Not for any particular reason – they're not fighting or anything – they just haven't had anything to say.

When she finally speaks, over dinner, her voice startles him, sounds like its coming from someone else.

"You're not perfect, you know."

He snorts. Then he laughs, hard, for a long time, until he's breathless and gasping.

She starts to smile, but then she realizes she doesn't find it funny, at all.

"You're not," she repeats.

Finally getting a hold of himself, he sputters out, "If I _ever_ gave you the impression that I thought I was…"

"But I'm not either," she adds, and he sobers. "And maybe… maybe that just means that we're perfect for each other. Our flaws go together. We match."

"You're the yin to my yang," he replies, and doesn't think that really means anything, but it felt like the right thing to say.

"I'm the Willow to your Xander," she says, and she is, and always has been.

Whatever that means.


End file.
